


Ray Cooking (unfinished)

by china_shop



Category: due South
Genre: Community: wip_amnesty, M/M, Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-02-04
Updated: 2006-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:58:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray surveyed the chaos that was his kitchen, and felt a flash of panic. It was already six-thirty, Fraser would be here in half an hour, and the whole thing was turning into a nightmare disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ray Cooking (unfinished)

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially going to be combined with [Coming Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/130014) and [Too Many Cooks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/129133), under the title Three Kitchens, but they never hung together and... blah blah, moved on, blah blah. Wow, it's so nice to finally post them. :-)

Ray surveyed the chaos that was his kitchen, and felt a flash of panic. It was already six-thirty, Fraser would be here in half an hour, and the whole thing was turning into a nightmare disaster.

Mostly it was a mess because he hadn't made beef piroshki in over ten years, since he and Stella were dating, and now half the traditional ingredients weren't even available anymore. His grandmother would swear some kind of ancient Polish curse if she could see modern American supermarkets.

Ray leaned both hands on the counter and let his head drop, as he wondered why in hell he'd offered to _cook_. What the _fuck_ was wrong with good, God-fearing takeout: easy, cheap, and stress-free? Takeout was an American tradition. It was how you ate. It was getting so it was almost unpatriotic to cook. But it was one of those things you did for people, now and then, you know?

Stella would've liked it, _had_ liked it, before she found out how inept he was, how the kitchen would look like a bombsite after, and how he never got round to cleaning up before she found the scattered flour and bits of ground round, and yelled, _Ra-ay!_ in that exasperated way she did.

Who's bright fucking idea was this, anyway? To make his _date meal_.

If Stella could see him now, she'd piss herself laughing. Struggling through domestic insanity to—Okay, Ray couldn't deny it anymore. To win Fraser's affections. There was no more escaping the fact that he, Ray Kowalski, was trying to court Benton Fraser. Courting. Did anyone even do that anymore?

Ray got a beer and swallowed half of it in one long gulp. He swallowed wrong and choked. Fuck. The bottle crashed into the sink, and he thumped his chest, struggling for air, which conveniently disguised the fact that he was shaking because, hell, that was a revelation and a half right there, that he wanted Fraser like that. Not that he hadn't seen it coming, hadn't felt it sneaking up on him. Thinking about groping him in the shower—that was a clue right there. He'd put it down to brain glitches or a weird hormonal thunderstorm. He'd thought it'd _pass_.

God, he felt like a moron. Fraser, whose one love that Ray knew about was a _girl_. Fraser who never showed interest in _anyone_. And here was Ray, with all the subtlety of a fully automatic machine gun, trying to impress Fraser with his cooking skills, even though he had none, and even though he stood no chance with him _whatsoever_ , and even though Fraser could probably cook piroshki blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. Probably had.

A firm knock on the door made him jump. _Jesus_. Fraser was early. And sure enough, when he opened the door, there was the Mountie, though not in his Mountie suit, but Fraser all the same, with his uncreased jeans and his red plaid shirt. He was hatless. Ray wondered if there was any significance to the presence or absence of hat.

"Ray?"

"Oh, ah yeah. Just—come in. Make yourself at home."


End file.
